


I'm a ruin

by illbeyourbestkeptsecret



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 00:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3401780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illbeyourbestkeptsecret/pseuds/illbeyourbestkeptsecret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank Iero is dead, now, though. And the worst part? It’s all my fucking fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm a ruin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to start this off by saying- TRIGGER WARNING. I started this months ago when I was in a really bad place and it's really dark and mentions depressing stuff pretty much throughout the entirety of it. Anyways, my goal with this fic was to make people cry. Tell me if I succeeded. Thank.

I don't know why I'm writing this down. I've attempted to not call this a dairy, more like a journal, but they are the same things, really. My therapist told me writing things down would help. But I'm certain if they looked through the notebooks I wrote through when I was twelve, they'd call me insane. The thoughts I had; day in, day out, they can't be normal. But then, fuck, have I ever been normal?

Anyway, I don't want to fill this with the same depressing shit. I think about killing myself, or other people, most days, every time I look at the scars on my body I want to make more, but screw it, that's the same old shit. Everyone's a little fucked up, just me more than usual. Even though, the detailed ways I explained in my head of how to kill the people I saw every day that I hate... I couldn't tell anybody about that. I've always had an irrational fear about prison and asylums. Maybe I've just watched too much TV. But anyway, you'd think with all of this shit going on in my head I'd hate it. That I’d be so goddamn fed up with the voices in my head. But I like the things that make me so fucked up. I like the way I slice my skin up, day in, day out. I like the way I stand near the bridge, and I'm not scared to jump off because who the fuck cares if I die? I don't fear death, fuck, I embrace it. Maybe that's why I fill myself with cigarettes and alcohol, more than a normal person should. But really, what is normal? Normal is the people you see with perfect lives, but do they really have all so perfect lives? Because I don't believe that bullshit. Fuck normal. Fuck lies, and fuck all of the people that think I'm fucking insane. Because, if I'm honest, I probably am, and that scares me more than anything else.

I've never cared about how broken I am. Nobody gives a shit about me, so why should I give a shit about myself? But then, anytime I get close to someone I push them away. The voice in my head says I can't trust them. It's probably right. I never cared about whether I lived or died, or about anything, really. There's something beautiful in ignorance, there's something beautiful about just simply not giving a shit. I've never cared about anyone, not even myself. That was until I met Frank Iero.  
Frank Iero is beautiful. In the purest, most innocent way. I saw him when I went out for the first time in what felt like months. I was just minding my business, sifting through records. Our hands touched, accidentally, in like a cliche movie moment when reaching for a Smiths record. I smiled, talking to people never being my strong point. We looked at each other for a moment, and for that moment, the voices in my head stopped. All there was in my head was this beautiful hair. With his short, black hair with one strand hanging over his forehead. He had chocolate brown eyes, and soft pale skin. He spoke, after a while, and his voice was... something I couldn't really explain. It was gentle, and he made me feel safe. Maybe I was just too vulnerable. Maybe I was just too desperate to be loved. 

Frank Iero is dead, now, though. And the worst part? It’s all my fucking fault. I could’ve helped him… I could’ve done so much more. But I didn’t. I destroyed him, and didn’t even think that maybe just because I was happy didn’t mean he was too. That just because I smiled every time I woke up next to him and finally felt like things were right in my life that he may not have felt the same.

After that day in the record store, we exchanged numbers and met up most days. Being older than Frank, I didn't go to school, although I liked meeting him at his school. Sometimes we'd go for a walk in the park, and he'd grab my hand. Frank never seemed all too bothered about it; he'd even sometimes kiss my cheek. Never my lips, though. Sometimes he went to, but hesitated and simply kissed my cheek instead. It was a simple, quick movement but I always noticed it. I noticed everything about Frank. I noticed the way his eyes were still so full of happiness and hope. I noticed the way he pulled his sleeves over his hands when he was cold. I noticed the way he stumbled across his words sometimes, and how nervous he got around new people.

He was just so beautiful, in every single way. Some days, we'd go to his, and sit in his bedroom and I'd listen as he played guitar. I loved watching him play guitar. Even now, I can perfectly recreate the first time he played his guitar for me, and how he made it look so effortless. It was the first time I felt like he had really showed himself to me.

I noticed the guitar in the corner of the room, hesitating a moment before pointing to it.

'You play?' I asked. Frank nodded, remaining tight lipped. I knew his weak spots, so I leaned forward and stroked his hair and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

'Play for me.' He looked up at me, hesitantly, and I gave him a reassuring smile. 

'Only because I love you.' He said, kissing my cheek. 

For the year we'd known each other, we told each other our relationship was strictly platonic. I liked teasing Frank without getting too heated. Although whenever he told me he loved me I could feel shivers running down my spine. It had taken him months to allow me into his house, so I couldn’t help but feel giddy about the fact he was open to performing with me. I knew he was nervous and it meant that he trusted me. Someone trusted me. Better yet, I trusted him. I watched him ever so carefully unzip the case the guitar was in and pull it out. He was so gentle with it, scared to harm it, it seemed. The guitar had a sticker with PANSY on it, which I couldn't help but smile at. He picked it up and pulled himself up on the bed. He started to strum a few uncertain notes, looking up at me after every note. I simply nodded, in an attempt to reassure him. I'd shown him my talent, which was art. Well, I'd actually shown him it accidentally. He'd been left in my room and had been curious and found my sketchbooks. He even found a drawing of him from when he was sleeping. He found it flattering, which I was glad about. Some of my previous boyfriends had found my drawings to be… Creepy. Although, Frank wasn’t my boyfriend. He was more than that. 

We never called what we were officially dating, even when it started to become more intense. Even when the day came where he accidentally slipped and called me ‘baby’. It seemed like such a simple term for what we had. Sure, we’d call each other boyfriend and not date anyone else. But that was just how we worked. No, what we had wasn’t dating. I’m not even sure if it was romance. Or love. It was something so dark and deep, that there is probably no word that can describe it. But don’t think that’s a positive thing. We relied on each other till the very end. We were nothing without each other, and everything with each other. We were inseparable; it was like we were the same person. I’d never had anyone who means as much to me as Frank. 

So, this is the first time I’m telling anybody all of this. Without any lies, without any bullshit. I mean, I told my therapist a few things, sure. But only what she needs to know. Only the stuff she basically forced out of me. I can’t put it into words, how Frank made me feel. I put on this front for a while, that I’d never let anyone in, that nobody would ever have my heart. Because honestly I didn’t think anybody would ever love me, so I decided to make it so that they couldn’t. Frank didn’t just have my heart; he ripped it out of chest, beating and all. I miss that fucking idiot. No matter how many times we argued or screamed at each other, no matter how many times his ‘friends’ told him they didn’t like me, it didn’t matter. Even when Frank left me once, telling me he couldn’t stand it anymore we still found our way back to each other. But not now. Frank’s never going to find his way back to me, he’s gone, he’s gone and he’s never coming back. And as selfish as it is, I fucking hate him for that.

God, I sound so fucking whiny. I hate that. I always told myself, y’know, fuck self-pity. Self-pity does nothing for anyone. It just makes you feel like shit, like you’re worth nothing. I’ve had that viewpoint for as long as I can remember. But now, I’ve lost the person who means the most to me, and I can’t help but wallow in my self-hatred. Because I don’t see what else I can do. I built my life around that fucker and now he’s gone.

I remember waking up and finding the suicide note. Although we never did anything, we still liked to sleep next to each other. I liked holding Frank close, my arms wrapped around him. He told me it comforted him, that he felt protected. All I wanted to do was protect him, and I failed. I fucking failed and I hate myself for it.  
One night, I woke up at around 3AM, expecting to find Frank at the other side of the bed. I reached out and was horrified when I couldn’t find anything. We’d made it a rule that we’d stay in bed until the other woke up, as one night I’d woken up and Frank hadn’t been there and I’d started freaking out, even calling the police. It turned out he’d just been to the pharmacy as he had started to feel ill, but I still yelled at him. I thought he’d left me and the thought horrified me. So, we made a rule, and if one urgently needed to get up, they’d wake the other up. So when I found Frank wasn’t there… I panicked. I searched the house back and forth, finding him nowhere. I screamed and yelled and kicked at the wall, frustrated. How could he leave me? Back then, I didn't realise the answer was in the question.

I found myself back in the bedroom, sobbing into my pillow. He’d left me. Of course he would. I should’ve known he was too good for me. I remember slapping and punching myself, feeling so stupid. Then I rolled over, and noticed a bit of paper sticking out underneath the pillow. I breathed in, grabbing it. As soon as I read the first few letters, I knew what it was. I couldn’t even finish it, my tears were clouding my vision. I remember shaking so much I thought that there was an earthquake. I remember yelling and crying, and crying, and more crying. What the fuck is the point of crying?

I screamed Frank’s name until my voice went hoarse. I punched and kicked at the door and walls, leaving holes. I was frustrated, upset, angry and I didn’t know what to do. The note didn’t tell me where he was. It just told me he had to go, and that he was sorry. Sorry. What does sorry do? Why do we even say sorry in situations like that when we know it won’t fix anything?

My breathing became shallow, and the tears wouldn’t stop. I hated him. I hated him for leaving me like this. We were supposed to get through this together. We were supposed to get better, together. And he fucking left me. He left me to fight in this shitty world on my own. I wanted to grab a load of pills and finally end this shit, but I couldn’t. I’d stayed alive for him, and in the note his one wish was for me to keep fighting. I was mad at him, sure, but I couldn’t dishonour his last wish. I couldn’t do that to him. I hated him, I hated him so much, but I loved him too. I loved him more than I hated him, actually. I just didn't want to admit it.

I remember turning on the shower, turning it as hot as it would go and laying in the bath and sobbing. The hot water felt nice on my skin. As I sat there, I thought of all the things that had happened recently. What had been the final thing to make Frank decide to end everything?

I still don’t know the answer. I can only guess that it was a build-up of everything that had happened in the past few months. His ex-girlfriend had died, and as she was his first love, that hit hard. I’m so fucked up I felt jealousy when he cried for her. I didn’t tell him that, though. I held him as he cried, kissing the top of his head and telling him everything would be okay. He never really got over that, I don’t think. I just hope he loved me more than her.

The time Frank got so tired of arguing and left was the lowest point of our relationship, though. That had only happened in the month before he had died, and I knew neither of us had forgotten it. I hated myself for it. I hated myself for hurting him, but for some reason I couldn’t stop it. I liked having power over Frank and knowing he wouldn’t leave because he didn’t want to hurt me. I took advantage of him, yeah, I’ll admit that. I should’ve known better but something told to keep doing it and I couldn’t stop. That was until he snapped. He snapped and told me he couldn’t do this anymore. I begged and pleaded, sobbing as I tried to stop him from leaving. It didn’t work. He told me that he loved me, that he needed time away. He also told me that I needed help, which lead at me screaming at him and telling him to leave. I didn’t mean it, obviously. He knew that. But he left anyway, and when he returned, a week later, it was like nothing had happened. In that week, he didn’t contact me at all, and it felt like a part of me had died. Now I feel like every part of me has died.

I tried to not be too protective over Frank. I wanted him to have a life and be happy, but at the same time I wanted to be comforted by the fact that I was the one he always wanted to return back to. He was as insecure as me in this front, though, so it worked out. We were both living in constant fear of losing the other, so we did everything we could to make sure that didn’t happen. Neither of us had many friends, but we ended up seeing them less and less as we started hanging out more and just found other people’s company tedious.  
I thought of myself too much, though. I remember seeing Frank with tears in his eyes and doing nothing about it because I didn’t want to bother him too much. I remember ignoring the new scars on his wrist because I didn’t want to know what had happened to make him do that again. I just wish I’d have pried more, I just wish I’d have thought of myself less. Maybe then he’d still be here. Maybe then I wouldn’t be forced to slice into my body just so I can feel something. I miss the feel of his hand, his lips, everything. I became numb when he left me, and now I’m just a shell. A shell that could self-destruct at any given moment.

I still think of all the things I could have done to prevent Frank’s death now, a year later. I could’ve listened more. I could’ve argued with him less. I knew he hated arguments, but yet I still fought with him. I couldn’t help it and now I’m paying the price. I read the letter every night before I go to sleep, although nowadays I don’t get much sleep. I usually end up grabbing a bottle of vodka and ending up having to knock myself out so I can actually fucking sleep.

I’m not going to be around for much longer. If I don’t kill myself, drugs will do the job for me. My life consists of making art that I usually hate, therapy sessions and filling myself up with booze and drugs. That’s not living. The real me died when Frank died. Now I’m just a ghost, a shadow of my former self.

The funeral was the worst part. His family side-eying me the entire time, nudging each other. I heard ‘freak’ and ‘psycho’ used multiple times. I know they blame me. I do too. The only important thing to me is that Frank didn’t blame me. He knows I loved him. He knows I would’ve done anything for him. And that’s all that matters to me. It just turned out I couldn’t save him. He couldn’t save me, either. So in the end, we were just two hopeless fools trying to make our way in the world. And we got lost. So fucking lost.

If the afterlife does exist, Frank, I hope you’re reading this. I hope you know I’m a fucking mess without you. I miss you, you fucking idiot. We were going to start a band together, remember that? I was going to sing, and you’d play guitar. We were going to get my brother in on it too. I was so happy with you, and now I’m just a wreck. You wouldn’t even recognise me. I’m not the boy you fell in love with. You ruined me, Frank. But I ruined you, too. We were just two train wrecks, destined to crash at one point or another. But I will say this- if I could have had my heart broken by anyone, I’m glad it was by you, you fucking dick. I love you. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I can’t save myself, either.  
Fuck this diary shit. There are way too many fucking tears on this page and all the inks smudged now. I said I wouldn't write about depressing shit, I guess I lied. Maybe I should try writing about happy shit. Ha. As if I could.

Gerard


End file.
